


Ground Zero

by Serenhawk



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Cockles, Fluff, Jensen really likes to cuddle, M/M, Misha is very confused, Or is it..?, Slow Burn, Somnophilia adjacent, total crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:36:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was probably always going to lead them here, like a reverse slow-motion detonation; the blast wave sucking inwards massing the pieces together, osmium forged at the beat of a hundred midnights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ground Zero

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a silly fluffy alternate head-canon, in honour of Jensen 'spider-monkey' Ackles, whose happy place is within arm's reach of Misha.
> 
> I haven't mentioned the wives. If you've read my main series you'll know that informed polyamory is an important part of the relationship for me, but in this I've chosen to leave out any commentary on their lives outside of each other. Not because I'm trying to handwave it away - more that I didn't want to get bogged down with exposition and repeating myself in this particular story.
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No disrespect intended to those whose names are used.

 

 

Into the night of the heart

your name drops slowly

and moves in silence and falls

and breaks and spreads its water.

 _\--Slow Lament_ , Pablo Neruda

 

 

 

The first time Misha woke up with an armful of Jensen Ackles it was completely, unconditionally, one hundred percent an accident. He’d swear to it in a court of law should it be required, and considered more than once it may well lead there.

It would have been churlish to _blame_ the alcohol but it was a catalyst, inasmuch as somewhere between the fourth and... somethingth glass of really quite spectacular wine the journey back to the gathering from the bathroom had seemed altogether too onerous (gravity being a treacherous thing) giving him reason to pause - for but a transitory moment of respite - on a convenient bed.

When he woke, an alarming yet restorative number of hours later,  the owner of said bed, and apartment, and indeed the host of the previous evening’s shindig supplying such estimable vintage, was curled loosely at his side, nosed against his uppermost rib under the arm which had either subconsciously stretched out of its own accord or had been manoeuvred to accommodate the crown tucked into his armpit. A snap inventory confirmed himself clothed, sans footwear (interesting) and agreeably blanketed. Cosy even. Preliminary assessment of his (at least tshirt-wearing) bed-sharer suggested nothing untoward in the situation, so he roundly concluded the snuggling part was an innocent anomaly.

Deciding he should make a chivalrous effort to disentangle himself and avert mutual embarrassment, he delicately attempted to inch away. However the palm loosely resting on his abdomen stretched tightly across his hips, asserting its owner’s unconscious disapproval.

Misha froze.

Expelling a controlled breath he urged his muscles to stand down. It was hardly objectionable after all, and the position was not even out of the ordinary – Jensen’s hands were on him on a reasonably frequent basis, for both work-related and more playful reasons. But in the immediate context, extenuated by the whole waking up together thing when you _don’t remember_ the preceding circumstances, Misha found himself flummoxed. Not that Jensen was awake yet, still snuffling (not delightfully, no, not in the least) warmly into his ribs.

So, he continued to lay there, vaguely aware that he was actively avoiding dislodging his friend, and pondered how he might use this turn of events to his advantage – ammunition was rare in this game.

When shortly thereafter Jensen blinked his eyes open to the muted dawn he simply breathed deeply, tipped on his back to languidly stretch, scratched at his collarbone, ruffled a palm over his own hair and hoisted himself upright from the bed as if Misha wasn’t even there. It wasn’t until after the toilet flushed and tap spluttered, and he'd padded softly back into the room where Misha was composing his apology that Jensen acknowledged him.

“Coffee?” was the laconic offering as the tanned legs walked past his head to be inserted into a waiting pair of jeans.

Misha raised up on one elbow and self-consciously tried to order his hair. “Umm, yeah, thanks, and… Sorry. And umm, thanks, I guess.” Apparently the disorientation was enough to sever access to his vocabulary.

Jensen straightened, buttoned his fly and looked to him to issue only an amiable shrug, leaving Misha no clues with which to navigate. His brows knitted together as he watched his friend leave the bedroom, and they stayed that way for much of the day – throughout a silent shared coffee, indifferent farewell, trudge home, journey to work, and onwards. Advantageously a perplexed frown was Castiel’s default countenance so his features required less schooling than was usual.

Nothing bothered him about it per se. But it hadn’t bothered Jensen either, and _that_ was the odd part. They’d worked together, on and off, for several years now, and while they hadn’t always ‘clicked’ they'd come to share an intangible but singular understanding of each other, so he liked to think he knew Jensen pretty well by this point. And while Jensen was warm and amiable, and distinctly tactile, Misha would never have picked him to be the kind of guy to randomly wake up entwined with his friends.

 

 Although evidently he was, because it happened again.

 

The second time was some weeks later on a Saturday night in a hotel in Texas. It was just after midnight and Misha was in bed, still a little wired from the convention day. He hadn’t seen Jensen but he knew he’d arrived early to catch up with family, and wasn’t expecting to run into him until the next morning’s circus was underway. So, when a text alert hauled him out of the internet wormhole he’d fallen into, he was taken by surprise.

: **You awake?**

> Yes, why?

: **Room?**

> 723

Misha waited, his ears straining in expectation.

: **Let me in??**

“Huh,” he huffed, frowning, before disembarking the bed and trekking to the door, opening it with a hesitant pull.

“I know it’s archaic but there’s this custom called ‘knocking’,” he gibed as his spontaneous guest entered.

“I don’t make a habit of knocking on random hotel doors in the middle of the night.” Jensen turned to beam a smile at him for which the only adjective he could find was coquettish.

“I'm random? Good to know,” Misha returned, arching a brow as he latched the door. They stood quizzing each for a moment. “So to what do I owe the honor?” he finally asked.

“Just… didn’t wanna to go to bed I guess.”

“I see—“ he agreed, though he didn’t really.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you up,” his friend said, waving a hand to encompass Misha’s lack of pants. Thankfully the aforementioned wormhole hadn't, on this occasion, harbored any porn and there was no being ‘up’ to show through his boxers at the time. “Cute glasses though,” Jensen added.

“Oh, yeah, I was just reading. You didn’t get me up,” he leered instinctively whilst internally rolling his eyes. Their routine innuendo was out of place partially clothed,  and occupying a hotel room in the small hours.

“Well, as you were.” Jensen gestured into the room, toeing off his shoes with practiced nonchalance.

Misha canted his head as he watched, before hesitantly stepping  back towards the bed. _Whatever_ he said to himself.

He climbed back in, folding the covers loosely over his shins as his friend arranged himself on the other pillow, folding first ankles then arms, one over the other. They both sat in easy quietude until Jensen began to fill the silence, chatting freely about who he’d seen that evening before divulging things he missed about his family, in turn leading to childhood anecdotes and sentimental recollections.

Misha just regarded him patiently until a half hour or so later Jensen, head pillowed on his bent arm, drifted off as Misha watched, a smile quirking his mouth to the side. Jensen looked ten years younger in slumber and the softness shaping his physique seemed to bleed into Misha, his eyes succumbing to fatigue followed by his chin hitting his chest. He roused himself long enough to crudely pull the bedcover over both of them and put his glasses on the bedside, muttering “guess I owe you one,” as he turned out the light.

So the following morning, when he surfaced from sleep with Jensen aligned along his back and an arm threaded under his to cradle his stomach, it didn’t require such an abrupt reassessment of his situation. In fact he’d half expected it; the realization weirding him out more.

“Jen,” he whispered after inching to reach for his phone and seeing the hour.

Not even a hint of a stir.

“Jensen,” he tried again, receiving a mumble into the wing of his shoulder this time. “Time to wake up, sleeping beauty. You need to get going.” He squirmed into his back, his companion allowing for the shift without giving up his casual embrace.

“Don’ wanna,” Jensen sighed against his tricep, clasping Misha’s t-shirt.

Misha wriggled further to face him, then regretted it as no appropriate resting place for his hand presented itself. “Come on, time to adult,” he urged, settling on a proactive approach, issuing a squeeze to where he hoped Jensen’s nipple would be under his layers of cotton. “Places to go, people to entertain!”

Jensen brusquely pulled away. “Asshole,” he griped, flopping to his front away to his side of the bed. _Shit_ , Misha thought – _two inadvertent sleepovers and he has a side of the bed.._

“Don’t make me start tickling you,” he threatened, following up with a jab in the ribs.

“Alright-alright. Meanie.” Jensen slurred ineffectually, pushing himself clear and stumbling towards the door. He put on his shoes, hair sticking up in every direction, and left without a backwards glance.

“Well, okay then,” Misha said to the empty room, oddly bereft.

 

 ***

 

The next time it happened Misha actually instigated it, though he carefully avoided analyzing the ‘why’ of that too hard. It was after a group dinner out, and a shared night cap that found them alone on his couch late in the evening. He stretched and yawned and wondered how Jensen could still look so alert, eventually flicking him a pointedly questioning look. His friend answered with a different one, hesitant and watchful.

“You okay?” he asked.

Jensen shrugged and tipped his head, like he was unsure of his answer.

“Wanna stay?” Misha ventured gently, not knowing how it would be received. Unplanned co-sleeping was one thing but issuing an invitation was another. The offer just came out of his mouth unbidden.

“Ye— um, yeah, that okay?” Jensen answered, clearing his throat weakly.

“Come on then,” he reassured with a pat to Jensen’s knee before leading him to the bathroom and tossing him a spare toothbrush. “You first,” he nodded, “then go make yourself comfortable.” He flashed him a wry smile - Jensen seemed to be good at that part at least.

He returned to the bedroom after shutting off the lights and his own ablutions to Jensen crooked on his side under the bedclothes facing the edge of his bed, over-shirt and jeans in a pile on the floor. Misha stripped down as far as he dared and crawled in, taking a few deep breaths as he lay on his back and wondering why the six foot plus man beside him gave the impression he was trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

Not risking over-thinking it all, he rolled to nudge his temple against the top of his  spine and slid a palm down his upper arm. “Night,” he whispered. “Sweet dreams.” Initially there was no response, but then after almost too-long a moment Jensen rested back against him and relaxed into a long exhale. Misha just shifted his nose, puffed an amused breath and invited sleep to take them both.

When next he opened his eyes it was to Jensen crawling back through the darkness into the bed next to him, the movement having disturbed his sleep. He stayed quiet, choosing to clamp his lids shut and shift to his back, feigning unconsciousness despite being immediately taut as his conscience staged a sudden mutiny.

He didn’t know what the fuck he was thinking the previous evening because this was _weird_ , pure and simple. The weird amplified when Jensen wormed his way over to tuck his chin into Misha’s clavicle and his forehead to his ear. No limbs found their way into Misha’s sphere for which he was grateful, though he lay blinking at the ceiling expecting some hand or foot encroachment as the warm breaths against his neck evened out. It’s not that he would have minded if there was, but there had to be a line somewhere, didn’t there?

He was somewhat startled to wake again, since he’d been sure he was going to be at to be at the mercy of his runaway brain for the rest of the night. He rolled over to see Jensen standing near the door, his belt jingling as he shook his rear into his jeans. “Later, sleepyhead,” and a pursed smile was all that was directed at him before his friend slipped out the door, and his apartment.

Okay, this has to stop. It is just too bat-shit, even for him. _Nice_ his brain traitorously supplied. Yes, but _bizarre_ he argued back. He searched for other adjectives to back up his assertion. _Inappropriate?_ Well, no, not really. _Injurious?_ Doubtful; neither were investing anything in this - there wasn’t anything to invest in. In fact he was having trouble putting his finger on what was bothering him.

Suddenly it struck him. He’d been shanghaied; inadvertently turned into a _cuddle whore._ They never talked about it or even acknowledged it, but he was on hug-booty-call... and he didn’t get so much as a thank you!

 _Fuck this_. Harmless or not, this had to STOP.

 

Which was why the next time he tried to resist it. _Really_ , he did. At least he started out resolute.

 

It was another weekend, another hotel, another American city. The band of merry men gathered in his room had slowly dissipated, leaving one cheerfully expectant sandy-haired Texan pointedly not moving from his couch.

They sat staring at each other for some time, Misha’s gaze eventually narrowing to a squint as he squared his posture and tried not to fidget the ankle slung over his other knee. He adored the man, but really there should be a Nobel prize on offer to the person who could accurately assess what was going on inside his head, and it irked him no end when even his educated guesses fell short.

“So,” he said suddenly, lurching to his feet and stretching his arms towards the roof. “I’m going to turn in. I’ll catch you, ah, tomorrow.” Okay, artful it was not, but he had standards (different from the ones belonging to most, but they were his nonetheless) and he was beginning to recognize the signs of when his ‘services’ were about to be procured.

Jensen’s expression flattened as he stood. “Can I--?” he asked plaintively, smoothing his palms down his thighs before his eyes flitted briefly to the bed.

Misha twisted his mouth, holding off a grimace that was more about how tragically susceptible he was to Jensen being so charmingly feeble. “You have your own perfectly comfortable bed waiting for you,” he insisted as gently as he could while trying to fake adamance.

Jensen’s face fell and he crossed his arms, focusing on a spot on the floor but remaining steadfast, a lick away from petulant.

“I think it’s bes—“ he started, intending to lay out a sound argument as to why friends don’t, to his knowledge, engage in this kind of behavior.

“Please?” his friend cut him off with a sharp look, defeat and defiance and something bruised all mixed up together.

And with that Misha learned he was a complete fucking pushover where Jensen was concerned as his poorly constructed resolve crumbled and dissolved. “Okay,” he eventually sighed, receiving only a depleted smile in return.

In truth he was relieved as something threatening to yawn between them melded back together. Somewhere, a box was checked.

 

***

 

So it was from that briefest of conversations (which turned out to be the closest they ever came to _talking_ about it) Misha became Jensen’s on-call sleepytime hug-buddy. Over the course of a year or so it became routine – sometimes several nights a week, others with months in between depending on their working lives and proximity – that Jensen would inconspicuously follow him home or text him a veiled request. He’d never come out and ask Misha in person, although occasionally Misha would get some approximation of a thank you as they vacated each other’s beds.

They did talk; soft admissions as their heads bent together on the pillow, or laughing over the events of their day at work. They’d always delighted in each other’s company and rarely disagreed, at least not over anything that mattered. But their pillow talk brought a different Jensen to the fore - one who was tranquil, and forthright, but oftentimes small and imploring.

Misha uncomfortably suspected the inverse was true, that Jensen was somehow etching him out and seeing him in relief, highlighting his shadows. He certainly found he divulged things he’d relegated to ‘no trespassing’ areas of his brain or that he thought were lost to the amnesia of time. Jensen indulged him by seeming to hang on his every word, but truthfully Misha loved hearing his friend open up parts of himself he'd not otherwise been privy to. Sometimes though, Jensen seemed to be locked in his own world and didn’t want to talk at all.

And in the mornings he would wake to Jensen adhered along his back, or he’d stretch his arm to let his friend fold himself underneath, all hands neatly tucked away in safe land of platonic. Over time it became a constant in his life, sweetly unaffected, and Misha absolved scrutiny of any right to interfere.

 

That was until one night when platonic nodded off on the job and things got a little funky:

Misha was woken from a particularly pleasant dream by strained meek sighs and movement under the sheets. There was friction and pooling of warmth and HOLY SWEET MOTHER OF FUCK,  _it was him_!

The fog cleared his brain in an instant leaving a vacuum of abject mortification that he’d been… uhh, _rutting_ in propinquity to his friend-slash-colleague-slash-staring partner-slash-not at all improper intermittent co-sleeper. He rolled sharply and held the air in his lungs, imploring any loitering compassionate higher powers that Jensen was out to it and was oblivious. That hope lasted approximately 7.5 seconds before his companion let out a chuckle so quiet Misha prayed he’d imagined it.

“Shit,” he swore under his breath, trying to expel the tension in every nerve into the thick air around him.

Jensen shifted to his back. “Don’ worry ‘bout it,” he mumbled faintly.

“Shit,” Misha repeated, louder. “I’m sorry.”

“Mish, it’s no biggie,” Jensen returned, then erupted in croaky mirth at his own (tasteless and patently incorrect, in Misha’s opinion) pun.

“Fucking... Fuckhead,” he groaned in puny rebuke, which only  made Jensen laugh harder, shaking the bed. Misha combed his fingers through his hair, smiling in spite of himself. “Sorry,” he reiterated, his humiliation spiking one last time as Jensen grew still again. “I don’t even know what… sorry.”

“Quit apologizing, it happens. Go back to sleep,” Jensen rumbled emphatically, shuffling back on his side away from Misha again.

 _Huh. It happens?_ He supposed it did, but not with them.

Out of nowhere a new and unwelcome feeling lodged in his chest. Did Jensen do this with other people too? And seriously _what the fuck,_ his neck flushing cold as something crystalized inside him _._ It took him a few moments to identify it because jealousy was not an emotion he’d had much experience with - he just didn’t seem to have the capacity for it. But suddenly he wondered if this was a not-so-secret habit and he wasn't the only one Jensen had done this with, and he did not like the sensations that thought pulled from him. And now he was back to feeling _used_ again, and decided the crushing embarrassment he’d woken up with was preferable.

Now he was inexplicably miserable, because he wished he wasn’t here at all. Since they were at Jensen’s apartment he supposed he could leave right this minute if he wanted to, but what the fuck was he _feeling_ to be jealous about? Yes they were close by now, in some strange and elusive way. But apart from the work and the _we-don’t-talk-about-it_ cuddling, they had completely separate lives.

He lay in a quandary, peering through the dark like he hoped to find the elixir that would calm his runaway emotions. At least it had cured him of the semi-erection he’d woken up sporting.

His pragmatism told him he should back right the fuck away from this again, but he really did _like_ this now. Maybe it was a bad habit. Maybe he had some hitherto uncharted intimacy issues this stint as horizontal cuddle-dispenser had brought to the fore. Maybe, just _maybe_ it was a Jensen-specific need, which was something he wasn’t yet prepared to delve into enough to understand. Whatever it was, he was going to make damn sure he slept as far on the opposite side of the bed as he could from now on. _Starting now_ he thought, rolling to the edge and plumping the pillow with a little too much violence.

It didn’t make any difference though. He still woke up in the centre, palm under his cheek and facing his friend, with Jensen’s fingers curled over his bicep and whose eyes only inches away were blinking at him in the milky morning light seeping through the blinds. It should have been creepy, but reassurance wafted over him like a blanket.

 

***

 

After that night Misha tried to limit the frequency of their sleeping habit for some time, reasoning that giving himself space might reorder his perspective a little. Jensen wasn’t all that happy about the excuses; he never said anything (of course) but the hard press of his lips or imploring green gazes issued towards him told Misha all.

One day however it came to a head, and marked another milestone in their ‘arrangementship.’ They’d been working together and it had been a long tough day: big emotions, fight choreography, prosthetics, creative disputes over dialogue and delays - everything that turned a regular day at work into an endurance exercise. Misha was tense and exhausted, and couldn’t get back to his trailer quickly enough. He’d had only just thrown off Cas’s coat in relief (seriously most days he wanted to burn that beige atrocity) when there was a knock at the door.

“Com—“ he’d not even managed to get a full syllable out before the door was flung open. “…in,” he finished, bemused. Jensen was clearly brimming with something, sealing them in unceremoniously and stepping into his space.

“Lay down,” his friend barked, altogether too _Dean,_ despite being in his own plaid _._

 _“W_ hat?” he blurted.

“Please.” Jensen lifted a hand to Misha’s shoulder. “I need you.”

“Jen—“

“Please,” Jensen repeated, plea weakening.

Misha shuffled from one foot to the other, hesitating, then kicked off his shoes before climbing onto what was generously described as the bed in his daytime home-away-from-home-away-from-home.

He stretched out, propping his head with a bent arm as Jensen followed, folding himself alongside his length and nosing into his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, after Jensen had huffed out a long shaky breath and ceased squirming.

“I jus’—I need you.”

Misha chuckled, but brought his free hand up to cup along Jensen’s jaw just as Cas had earlier. “You know we’re done with that scene right?” he joked gently. “There’s character bleed and then there’s _method—“_

“No, Mish,” Jensen interrupted, going tense again. “ _I_ need you,” he murmured into Cas’s pristine white shirt.

_O—kay._

“Um, okay,” he mollified, tracing his thumb over the sparse line above his ear. “Well… I’m here.”

And he was, _damn it_. One day he’d learn to say no to Jensen, but today was not to be that day.

 

 

After that incident their ‘normal’ resumed play, with special features like occasional work-time _wakeful_ nestling, especially when the hours were long or the work was arduous. This was fine, Misha adapted, but then after a while it bled into their interactions no matter where they were. It usually involved Jensen casually hooking his chin over Misha’s shoulder from behind or shuffling closer on the couch to simply lean into him, or tossing a cushion into his lap to lay down, breathing low purrs when Misha massaged his scalp or brushed his forehead.

At this point Misha didn’t know what he was because he felt like a lot of things: colleague, friend, confidante, heated hug-pillow, mother hen, counsellor…sometimes Jensen made him feel like he was the Dalai fucking Lama. But he was happy to be all those things and had assimilated them all into his terms of reference file labelled ‘Jensen Ackles.’ Even if it meant he felt like he was constantly watching him to see where Jensen was at and what he might need on any given day. Of course observing him to such an extent meant he couldn’t help but notice Jensen watching him back in the quiet spaces between moments.

He really should have predicted by now their own private evolution would continue its advance, but it wasn’t long before he was again caught on the back foot and forced to assimilate another aspect of _what the ever-loving fuckery_ into his understanding of who they were.

While he’d done his damndest to erase the earlier hard-on incident from his memory, the next time it occurred he suffered no less chagrin when it was Jensen sprouting a healthy boner in the middle of the night. He knew it was healthy because he could feel it in the small of his back, in between brushes of knuckles as Jensen fondled himself.

Misha didn’t know if Jensen was even awake and debated how to react, eventually deciding to save them both any awkwardness by aggressively pretending it wasn’t happening and that he was fast asleep. This proved harder (pun withstanding) when the other man rolled away and clearly continued his attentions, breathing in shorter harder gasps until Misha sensed him going rigid from two feet away.

So apparently it _did_ happen, and okay, Misha was, for the most part, at home with the many manifestations of human arousal. _And_ they were mature adults familiar enough with each other that masturbatory inclinations were more inhibition than impropriety. Especially as an exception rather than the rule, right? Besides, they were between Jensen’s sheets so it didn’t really affect him in any way. Other than the involuntary twitch his own dick gave at a particularly long suppressed groan from his companion.

That exception didn’t remain exceptional for long however. The next time they were together Misha woke just before sunrise to see Jensen across the pillows with his chin arrowed at the ceiling, the blankets undulating as his hand moved underneath. Misha should have closed his eyes and ignored the show, but he was mesmerized by the shifting cords in Jensen’s neck and tiny sighs escaping his parted lips.

Then the _thing_ happened, the thing that signposted a sharp left turn. As those sighs caught in his friend’s throat he suddenly turned his head to look directly at Misha.

He had nowhere to hide; he’d been caught staring, and as Jensen’s eyes glazed and his eyelids stuttered echoing his release, Misha was pinned not just a voyeur but as a participant.

The knowledge sent a swirl of molten chagrin and arousal down his spine, his own mouth falling open in a silent gasp that didn’t go unnoticed by his friend’s clouded gaze. _Oh shit,_ he thought simply. His brain wasn’t capable of making any more of a constructive contribution while Jensen’s eyes detained him and his pulse drummed like a runaway herd.

Misha definitely did not doze that morning – he was too preoccupied with failing to align his mind and his body, which seemed to be at opposite ends of the spectrum on the issue of how to proceed. His critical awareness being of the _no-no this way lies infinite possibilities by how to fuck up_ _Thou Shall Not Pass_ school of thought, whereas his 'anything goes' endocrine system was more willing to attest that seeing his enchanting perplexing friend at the brink of orgasm was unexpectedly one of the hottest fucking things he had witnessed in a while and further research should be conducted, starting maybe with did Jensen’s toes make a habit of curling as his pleasure surged forth. 

 

He’d still not reconciled the two extremes when Jensen took matters into his own hands. Literally.

 

The next night they had a cuddle-date sleep was eluding both of them. Eventually his friend tossed onto his back and, heaving a sigh of audible frustration, began to listlessly stroke himself under the sheet. Misha raked his eyes over the dim outline of Jensen’s frame and felt rather than saw when his friend’s head turned towards him. A hand snaked out and found his own, tugging. Misha provided no resistance as it was guided unceremoniously to Jensen’s groin then abandoned on the doorstep, as if leaving it for Misha to decide whether step over the threshold.

He tried to debate with himself, his fingertips pressing feather-lightly one by one along the crease of Jensen’s thigh, but his synapses wouldn’t fire under the flood of impulse. It didn’t have to change or mean anything, did it? None of this has ever changed them or _meant anything._ They could just add this to the invisible list of things about _them_ they never talk about.

Misha walked his fingers into the short coarse hair before lifting them to skim over the other man’s budding erection. It was still the better part of soft, but gave him a tiny jerk of encouragement. Jensen’s hand emphatically covered his, moulding his fingers to guide them in abrupt drags, teasing the length.

After a minute of processing the development (and developing his friend’s hard-on) he ceased analysis in favour of throwing everything he had into giving a world class hand-job. So it was with an absurd amount of pride that after Jensen came with jagged pants tapering quickly as he slumped towards sleep, Misha contorted out of his tee and made a reasonably thorough attempt to clean his companion’s abdomen of jizz. He finished by rearranging his shirt down and waistband up from where they’d been bunched out of the way, and once he was satisfied (of a job well-done) he tossed the abused clothing on the floor.

He cast a last glance at his stilled companion and turned away hoping to fall unconscious more easily. He only realized - with a spirited quiver from below - that he’d paid no attention to his substantially roused self until Jensen rolled against his back, plastered a cheek into the (now bare) wing of his shoulder and laid strong fingers over his cotton-clad cock like it was his own. Misha swallowed as his hips writhed tentatively into the loose grasp, which along with a nose wormed into his back was all Jensen conferred. After a few minutes he found he was more that content to drift away, snugly cocooned, to the rhythm of shallow breaths wisping across his skin.

In the morning he left his friend dozing and tossed his tshirt in Jensen’s laundry, deciding he could take care of his own come stains. Scratching around Jensen’s wardrobe to find a substitute, he amended their classification: _totally platonic bed-sharing comfort-cuddling friends who occasionally help each other get off and subsequently borrow clothes._ He could deal with that. _Nothing unusual to see here, move the fuck along_ he ordered the part of his brain proclaiming judgement and doom.

To his surprise, it didn’t in fact become a regular thing, and Jensen certainly didn’t give any indication that anything unexpected had happened. He thought briefly maybe he’d dreamed it, but then that threw up the disturbing question of _why_ he’d dream it in such vivid detail.

Maybe his friend had freaked out about it, or maybe his wrist action wasn’t as accomplished as he’d thought because Jensen kept to himself for the next several months. And by ‘keeping to himself’ he meant less sidelong staring and physical contact, and definitely no orgasms - assisted or otherwise. However their sleepovers were as numerous as ever.

Neither of them really asked anymore, it just kind of happened as if by an unwritten schedule they weren’t aware they’d committed to. Jensen would only have to glance at him with a certain softness around his eyes, or contrarily avoid his eye-line altogether for Misha to just _know_.

And Misha wasn’t just a backscratcher in the unarranged arrangement. More often than not he truly desired the company, _Jensen’s_ company; the repartee that characterized their interplay right up until the moment it was decided to hit the proverbial hay, the solid presence dipping the mattress nearby, and even the soft snuffly snores accompanying his attempts to doze that made waking earlier than he would have liked agreeable.

 

 

 

The first time Misha realized he was in love with Jensen Ackles they weren’t in the same bed, or room, or even in the same city. He was sitting in one of the many departure lounges that wallpapered his downtime, and it slowly dawned on him that he was burgeoning with a quiet anticipation, knowing he was going to see Jensen the next morning. It made no sense at first, but then like a pebble dropping in a still pool the ineffable truth of it radiated out in waves, each ripple eroding his awareness and revealing something veiled by a patina of prudence and pretext.

A loop of _shitfuckshit_ began reverberating in his head, jarring with the ache diffusing from his core. How had he not even realized it had happened? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d become a little infatuated in a friendship, some people just seemed to light up from the inside for him no matter who they were, but he was never in a friendship like this one before. One, for example, where he would share beds, embraces, and intimate confidences. (He purposefully didn’t include the getting off because that was only _that_ _one time)._

He didn’t know what to do, so he did nothing. He was pretty sure he was on his own in this, but he’d rather wait out his feelings rather than try and force the issue and end up pushing Jensen away.

 

It was an easy enough strategy to implement until another orgasm tumbled over his parapet, leaving him in disarray. This time when he woke up in the pitch dark there was no mistaking the rigid hard-on against his rear. On impulse he squirmed back, testing the waters, receiving a shift in the hips behind him in return. _Fuck,_ he shouldn’t do anything, he should move away, shut off the chemical responses whipping through his veins, but the instant hardening in his underwear was very persuasive and successfully overruled wisdom without a second thought.

He drifted tentative fingers behind him and wrapped them unconditionally around their target. Jensen ground forward and Misha squeezed, rubbed then flicked his fingertips inside the clothing. Nails dug satisfyingly into his hips before slipping lower. Then a hand confidently grasped him back and from that moment he was lost - a complete fucking shambles - and he knew that he’d greedily take anything he could get. His brain didn’t really get a say in it as arousal pierced through him like shards, leaving small seams through which need and restrained emotion bled and blended.

They both came that night, Misha’s orgasm pulled torturously slow from the marrow of his bones, the dark keeping his utter submission to the spell secret.

After that occasion it did become something of a regularity though never so potently shared. It mostly began with some half-hearted caress or mid night lazy grinding, and often it didn’t proceed much farther. At some point they ceased routinely wearing t-shirts in bed, and afterwards Misha would sometimes press unshaped kisses across Jensen’s back and get a feathery sigh in return. Once or twice he’d find his hand reach out to drift the pads of his fingers over Jensen’s cheekbone, who would always gently roll away, dismissive, even if he seemed to soak in the gesture for a bare moment.

It was slowly driving Misha nuts. There was a week or so where he started to sulk whenever they were in the same room, sullen irritability oozing from his every pore. But that only caused his friend to sulk right back and if anyone was going to win in a sulk-off it was going to be Jensen, so he let the sourness evaporate. There was little point to both of them being dicks.

But Misha was gradually reaching a tipping point; he liked being needed and knew that he was, they touched and essentially had sex but it always somehow felt anonymous, they were there for each other in every practical way without ever acknowledging it. It was the easiest thing in his life whilst rapidly becoming the most agonizing.

Then one rare morning when he was the second to wake, he was greeted with a long studied look that left him feeling denuded and fixed. He reached out, needing to connect and grazed a thumb along Jensen’s jaw, his friend’s lips twisting into a brief abandoned smile before he tipped to his back to stare soulfully at the ceiling. Misha felt a blast of annoyance – he’d caught flashes of fascination and devotion and few other things he wanted to shout out loud in that smile, he would bet his favourite aunt on it.

He flipped and surged out of bed, not able to lie there with failure for a second longer. It was early, so he helped himself to a shower even though they were at Jensen’s apartment, taking his time and letting the frustration percolate.

By the time he’d made coffee and Jensen rounded the corner into his kitchen, Misha was just about beside himself. Everything was clear, and yet tinted red and acrid. He didn’t bother with any preamble.

“I can’t do this anymore.” he asserted, hoping his voice didn’t take on the shaking he sensed in his limbs.

Jensen looked confused. “You can’t?”

“No!” he exploded, “I mean, what _is_ this, what the fuck are we doing? I just…I CAN’T!”

Jensen flinched, actually shrank before him and Misha’s stomach plummeted towards the floor. He looked away, chest heaving and wanting to dissolve and run and fight and swear the air blue simultaneously. “I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at the other man. Jensen folded his arms across his front, like he was trying to box himself up to store away.

Misha was hit with a wave of resentment and peevishness. Why can’t they fucking talk about it? Why did Jensen torture him like this then back away every time? Was he really just a warm body of convenience all these fucking years?

He wanted to kick something, so hard it hurt like shit and he could focus on a single blooming point of pain instead of the feeling that he could shatter to dust at any moment. Tears began to prick under his lower lids. _Fucking terrific._

“Why not?”

Jensen’s murmur sliced through his spiral into self-absorption. “What?” he spat, then closed his eyes and wished he could bite his tone back in and swallow it.

“Why can’t you. Do this.”

Misha peeked at the floor before sweeping his eyes up. Jensen had straightened, suddenly imposing in a 180 turn around in posture. It made Misha crumple in response and he wasn’t sure why. Nor did he have a real answer.

“Umm, I think you know why,” he hedged with a shrug, putting the ball in Jensen’s play. Part of him wanted to push and just keep pushing until one or both of them fell over the edge, just to have an end. “You have to know, Jen.”

Jensen lifted his chin and fixed him with a stare that made his skin itch. “Have to know what, Mish? I’m not a mind reader. If you want to tell me something you have to use your big-boy words.”

Misha would have been ready to tear his hair out if the challenge hadn’t been overlaid with tender playfulness. Really, he could be infuriating: taciturn one minute, dogmatic the next.

“I… I’m—“ he stuttered, finding the words right there but not wanting to throw them out naked and exposed into the charged room, adrenalin making his insides roil.

He rolled his lips together and matched Jensen’s fierce look. _Alright, if he wants it, he can have it, warts and all._ Well, not _literally_ , he was as clean as a whistle.

“I can’t do this,” he began ominously, “when I feel more for you than I knew was possible, and when I joke that I love you the omission turns it sour. I can’t lie in the dark with you anymore when I want to lick along your skin and chart every contour, feel your whiskers scrape across my lips until they’re sore and soothe them by finding every spot on you that makes you shiver. I can’t do this when I feel you come in my hand and hear the noises you make when I really want to wrap my mouth around you and drink you to the very last drop. I can’t _do this,_ when I always have to keep at a distance and never say the words aloud that are on the tip of my tongue when I watch you wake up, and then have to go through the day like we’re just ordinary unusually-fucking-close friends”.

He held the mutual stare. _How does he retain his fucking stupid poise after that? Or maybe it just doesn’t affect him at all._ Misha suddenly felt spent, and the awkward urge to apologize.

Jensen was the first to glance away, jabbing his fingernail at a spot on the counter. “Because friends don’t do this,” he conceded.

Misha sighed. “No, they don’t.”

“But were not just friends are we,” Jensen said lowly.

“No I don’t think so, not for a while,” he admitted.

“So what are we?”

“That’s what I need to know!” he erupted, throwing his hands above his head before dropping them to his sides, slumping in the absence of resolution.

‘Why,’ Jensen asked. Was he _trying_ to drive Misha insane?

‘Why what?”

“Why do you need to know? Why can’t we just ‘be’?”

Misha took a breath then realized he didn’t know, and was stuck gawping. He should be better at this. He’d been led to believe his emotional intelligence was reasonably high. So were his communication skills. Apparently not when it came to Jensen motherfucking Ackles, both leaving him high and dry.

Jensen shifted his weight and stepped forward, coming to stand a pace away. Misha focused on his toes, absent of hair and pinpricked with freckles like the rest of him. He only looked up when he felt fingertips land lightly on his elbows and begin to ghost up his arms. The touch earthed him, like a thundercloud shedding its critical energy. He glanced at Jensen’s eyes and wished he hadn’t, transfixed in an instant by sunlight pooling over moss, drawing closer and _fuck no that wasn’t fair._

He backed out of the impending embrace and looked away. “Don’t," he protested at the fridge, surly.

“Why not?” Jensen questioned softly.

_Why why why! What is with all the questions. He needed answers. FUCK._

“Because if you hug me it makes everything alright again,” he said, surprising himself.

“And you don’t want to be alright?”

“No! I want to be… errrrr!” he growled ineloquently, scowling and clenching his fists.

“So, if I was to… umm… kiss you, would that help?”

“What?” he blurted, blindsided.

Jensen took a half step towards him again, slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a skittish animal. “You heard me.”

Misha felt dizzy, trepidation and elation battling it out in his bloodstream. “Ah. Maybe. Yes? Do you _want_ to?”

“Pretty sure I want to. Been thinking about long enough,” Jensen said, issuing an irony laden huff.

“What?” he repeated, knowing it was getting ridiculous. _Why is he just saying this now?_

“I just, you know, don’t want it to change anything, between us. There’s no going back from there,” the other man proposed gently.

Misha scoffed a bitter laugh. “Go back to what? We’re already so far from—“

He stopped himself, dismayed at the hysterical note in his voice. He took a deep breath. “I don’t see how it has to change anything,” he assured with forced calm.

“It might change a lot of things out… there,” Jensen said, vaguely gesturing to the door.

“I don’t give a monkey’s ass about our outside lives, that’s another conversation. Right now I need us to acknowledge what’s already here,” he pressed, pointing at the space between them, “that’s if what’s here is what I think it is,” he finished, a note of dejection creeping into his tone.

He watched his friend, whose eyes darted round the room as a sudden storm of emotions seem to play out, not just across his face but head to toe; teeth dragging over his lower lip as his shoulders wilted, the fingers of one hand flexing over his jaw. _He was afraid,_ Misha realized with a shock. Not just backward, or obtuse, really fucking scared at a cellular level.

Misha wanted to touch him, soothe him like a child lost at Disneyland who should be full of joy and wonder but instead was utterly bereft. It made his heart sink. “We don’t have to name it, Jen,” he began, hushed and subdued. “I wouldn’t know how to. But we _already_ are, we can just _be._ Just more honest. Just _more us.”_

Jensen took a shaky breath and Misha stepped forward to lightly pull the other man’s hand away from his face, not letting him hide. Letting go he replaced it with his own, tracing tentative fingertips along his cheekbone and down back to his chin. This time there was no pulling away.

He eased closer until their chests met and let his hand fall, following the arc of Jensen’s arm.

“So nothing changes huh?” Jensen rumbled in his best whiskey-laced tone.

“Nothing changes.” Misha allowed a small smile as he shook his head. “Well, I may from time to time express my desire to have you fuck my brains out.”

Jensen blinked. “Holy shit, Mish,” he breathed, hot against Misha’s face, who wanted to take all his air from him.

Misha searched the green eyes as they cleared. He’d eked out his patience to the last meagre scrap and now they teetered on the edge; if Jensen couldn’t go forward, he couldn’t go back.

Something new took over in his friend’s expression and Misha could feel him shed the agitation like a second skin, replaced by the hum of inevitability. Jensen’s eyeline dropped to his mouth and he heard the tiniest intake of air, though he couldn’t tell from whom it came. The universe slanted and folded in on itself as their entire history flashed before Misha’s eyes like a man knowing he was about to die, millimetres stretched out over years as they see-sawed closer, nearer, nearly…

 

And then the kiss settled on them both; quenching, lucent, _right._

 _Finally,_ his every atom sang.

 

And it changed EVERYTHING.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I'm allowed to go to Con now Khara.


End file.
